


Firsts

by Tokakokan



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Existentialism, F/M, First Love, I wanted my first fic to be fluff but here we are, Implied Sexual Content, Under the Highwind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25762621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokakokan/pseuds/Tokakokan
Summary: She thinks about the boy next door—the boy with flaxen hair and the bluest eyes she’s ever seen—and wonders how her life would’ve been if he had never left.If he had never felt like he wasn’t enough.Under the Highwind, Tifa reminisces of days long past, and a life unlived.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 21
Kudos: 80





	Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> If someone told me I was gonna write fanfiction again for the first time in 13 years I would not have believed them. Full disclaimer, I have never played the OG but fell into this fandom hard via the Remake and spoiled myself too much for my own good, so hopefully the characterization isn't too far fetched. 
> 
> Thanks to [OurLadyMuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourladymuffin) and [Quiet_Constellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Constellation/pseuds/Quiet_Constellation), this fic wouldn't exist without their encouragement.
> 
> Thank you also to [SKEvans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skevans) for generously offering advice and editing. 
> 
> I'm honoured to have gotten feedback from three incredible writers; check out their work, you won't be disappointed!

Whenever Tifa thinks of her happier days, her chest tightens. It’s a painful yet warm feeling, one that familiarizes itself in the cracks of her heart.

Except today, as she commits to memory what might be the last sunset of her life, it’s different. She stares at the sun until her eyes burn in protest, the light branded behind her lids when she closes them.

Today, she would give anything to go back, to immortalize and freeze time and live in those days eternally.

She thinks about her hometown, about carefree summer evenings, her mother’s hands gently combing her hair and the press of her father’s lips on her forehead as he carries her to bed—and she wants to weep for the embraces she took for granted.

She thinks about the boy next door—the boy with flaxen hair and the bluest eyes she’s ever seen—and wonders how her life would’ve been if he had never left.

If he had never felt like he wasn’t enough.

She thinks about how they could have gotten to know one another slowly, naturally. That instead of a promise to return, it would have been a promise to stay. If she imagines hard enough, she can almost hear the whisper of shared secrets in soft voices—secrets about their hopes, their dreams, their fears.

She wishes that she could have heard them spoken from his lips, of his own volition, instead of pulled from the most fragmented, private recesses of his mind.

Maybe, just maybe, they would’ve fallen in love, the way they were supposed to, the way she’d read about in stories.

Not like this, where it takes them a day from death to confess their feelings.

Not like this, when they’re each other’s final goodbyes—no home or family to go back to.

Not like this, their clothes discarded hurriedly for practicality rather than passion, the setting sun a timepiece for the short time they have left together.

The short time they have left to live.

He looks at her so tenderly she could break right there, in his hands. She wants to scream.

_I can’t lose you too._

She doesn’t know how to survive the loss of another person she loves. Part of her hopes she doesn’t have to; death seems like the preferable option.

Her eyes squeeze shut and she prays it’s a bad dream, just a really bad nightmare, and that when she wakes up she’ll be transported back to a time when things made sense, when her choices weren’t rooted in fear or despair, when her life felt normal. When she felt _safe._

But nothing in her life is normal, it hasn’t been for a long time, and so she pretends.

When he presses his lips against hers, she pretends it’s after their third date, when they broke curfew to watch the stars.

When he lays her down in the grass, the dew making her skin shudder, she pretends it’s the blanket covering her bed, the window left ajar from where he sneaked in.

When he whispers muffled words against her bare skin, she pretends that he tells her that he loves her.

When he stops to trace the uneven skin over her heart, fingers hesitating, she reassures him with an _I'm fine, hurry_ before the reminder of their mortality catches up to her fantasy—where their skin is smooth and flesh unmarred, no marks or memories of the man they are to face tomorrow.

And when she comes undone, unraveling at the seams, so does the spell. A tear slips down her cheek as she watches the sun break the horizon, followed by another, and she wishes she could have this moment for just a little longer.

Just a little longer.


End file.
